


the other side of the war

by skogr



Series: lighting candles [6]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M, Lyrium Addiction, Lyrium Withdrawal, PTSD, Post-Trespasser DLC
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-23
Updated: 2016-01-23
Packaged: 2018-05-15 17:40:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,005
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5793799
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/skogr/pseuds/skogr
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cullen and Trevelyan are still trying to find an honest way to do good without the Inquisition, and Cullen’s idea for an ex-templar sanctuary seems like a good first step. It’s both easier and harder than he ever expected.</p>
            </blockquote>





	the other side of the war

**Author's Note:**

> This happens chronologically after and is very much a companion piece to [making do and mending](http://archiveofourown.org/works/4972069), but hopefully can be read alone.

The idea comes to him with the sunrise, slowly and carefully until it is all at once fully formed in his mind. It feels right immediately, warm and hopeful, but he decides to mull it over thoroughly nonetheless.

Linnea is still asleep; he'd left her muttering nonsense in some kind of drowsy attempt at solidarity, so he'd kissed her on the forehead fondly and left her in the quiet. Even as he dressed he could hear the thump of Chester’s tail hitting the floor delightedly. Cullen can always rely on him to get excited about a potential walk, no matter the time of day or night.

It's more day than night now that spring has arrived, bringing clear early sunrises instead of winter's heavy darkness. His sleeping schedule feels like less of a burden when daylight follows close on his heels.

He calls Chester back and hears an echoing bark from across the river. He'll be soaked through, no doubt, and Cullen can't recall if he remembered to shut the bedroom door. If not, it's likely Linnea will be getting a rude awakening with a faceful of damp mabari.

He’ll have to run his idea past her, of course, but he doesn't feel ready quite yet. No - he'll turn it over a little more in his mind, make some hypothetical enquiries so he can come back to her with something more substantial.

Chester pads up to him and they start to head back, to head _home,_ boots and paws alike wet with the morning dew. The fresh air has eased the tightness across his brow and cleared his head, and he takes a moment to appreciate the idyllic picture in front of him: the expanse of Ferelden countryside that feels so familiar and comforting, Chester at his heels with his tongue lolling out happily, and the farmhouse over the next hill where a warm bed and someone to share it with awaits. It's still far too early to be up by Linnea’s standards; he could slip back under the sheets and let her curl up on his shoulder. He won't get any more sleep, but he's more than content to just fit himself around her and let her steady breathing soothe him.

It's not just his sleeping schedule that feels like less of a burden these days. Nothing is easier but everything is better, even so. It hardly seems possible, but here he is.

And there is the crux of his early morning realisation: the impossible is for the taking. It hardly seems fair that he keep it all for himself.

As he lets them in the front door, he murmurs a half-hearted warning to Chester who cheerfully ignores him and bounds straight through the house to the bedroom. Cullen follows, and sure enough there he is, damp and excitable and trailing wet leaves all over the clean bedsheets. Chester nudges at Linnea’s face and she sleepily bats him away, rolling over.

“Out,” Cullen says firmly from the doorway, and Chester obeys, but only after giving him a dramatically devastated look. “You _know_ you're not allowed in here.” He scratches him behind the ears before he pulls the door closed anyway, evidently not as immune to Chester’s blackmail as he'd like to think. He's not the smartest mabari, but he's awfully clever when he wants to be.

He lingers at the doorway, still tempted by the empty space in the bed, but a sense of urgency has taken over and until he's written these letters he's likely to be fidgety and restless, and therefore not the best bed partner.

Chester curls up at his feet as he writes, still wet but a solid, comforting weight. He's finished them by the time he hears Linnea shuffling her drowsy way along the hallway, and puts the matter from his mind for the time being. She greets him good morning with a lazy kiss to the corner of his mouth as she leans over the back of his chair.

“Bad night?” she asks softly as he catches her hand over his shoulder and presses a kiss into the palm.

His full answer is _yes, but it doesn't matter._ A bad night is just a longer morning now, he's free to have them and with that freedom, they weigh on him a little less. Rather than try to articulate this, he smiles into her wrist.

“No,” he says, and it's a truth of its own sort. “Not really.”

“Mmhmm,” she says, somehow expressing agreement and scepticism at the same time, and gives his fingers a squeeze. There it is: the gentle acceptance that paves the way for bad nights to become just _nights_ , neither good nor bad.

It's too much to ask for, but here he is, asking for it anyway. He closes his eyes as she runs her hand absently through his hair as she heads through to the kitchen, yawning widely.

He breathes it in, and the idea spreads its roots a little deeper.

 

-

 

From time to time he finds himself thinking about Samson; not the bitter, vicious shadow of a man who died slowly and stubbornly in a prison cell, but the man he was when Cullen first knew him. Still bitter, still stubborn, still beholden to things beyond his control. Still so _angry_ , but so different. He knew exactly how tight the leash the Chantry had on him was - Cullen was yet to understand that himself, not for many years - and Samson hated it furiously even as he embraced it. It was one of the things that was so hard to stomach about him, not just his open disdain for the Chantry, but his open hunger for lyrium. They all felt it, but he was one of the few who didn't try to twist it and turn it into something honourable.

When he looked in on the snarling man in that Skyhold cell, he couldn't help but see the same man begging on the streets of Lowtown. He can't forgive Samson for what he did, but he can't deny that so many people failed him miserably. It should not have happened. But it did.

They'd offered him the lyrium their templars were taking, often and freely, but he never took it, scorning the Inquisition until the end. Cullen would like to believe it was one last act of defiance, but the truth is, it probably wasn't enough any more.

Rylen never stopped; few of them even toyed with the idea seriously. Cullen had many reasons for keeping his own personal struggles private, not least of all because he wouldn't want them to think he was asking the same of them.

Rylen knew, of course, it wasn't feasible to keep it from someone he worked so closely with. He never offered anything but silent support for Cullen’s decision, but he could tell he thought it was either foolish, dangerous and futile. Maybe all three.

Most templars have made peace with the fact that lyrium will slowly, slyly take everything they have in the end. When their only other option is the unthinkable decision to give it up, it's hardly even an option to many. By doing so, they risk even more. The logical decision is just to live out the rest of your life as planned, and hope lyrium is more generous with the years it gives you. That path at least guarantees a certain lifespan and lack of any great discomfort.

Cullen didn't stop because he feared death or senility. It wasn't about that.

Rylen would watch him with wary sympathy as his hands shook on the bad days, eyes lingering briefly on his shining forehead. Likewise, Cullen would pretend not to notice the way Rylen started to fidget in the hours before he took his daily draught, or the way his eyes would dart from side to side.

There was never an easy way out, not for any of them.

 

-

 

The letters he receives in response to his vague enquiries are far more positive than he'd hoped, and he reads them several times over the next few days with a growing sense of conviction.

He finds Linnea outside, perched on the edge of the fence, throwing scraps of meat for Chester and laughing as he trips over himself in his haste to catch them.

He comes up behind her and winds his arms around her waist, kissing the top of her head.

“Would you like to come for a walk? There's something I'd like to show you.”

She leans back into his chest. “Show me?”

“You'll see,” he says, and she twists to look him in the eye, her expression shrewd.

“How mysterious. I don't suppose this has anything to do with that letter from Leliana you've been pouring over the last few days? I was starting to feel left out.”

“That wasn't my intention,” he says, feeling suddenly very guilty, but she presses a kiss to his cheek and leaps down from the fence.

“I know, Cullen.” She cups his jaw with her hand. “I’m just teasing. Take all the time you need.”

He takes her hand in his, and nods over his shoulder. “Just let me show you.”

 

-

 

He hasn't been before, but Leliana’s written directions are clear enough that he is confident of the way, Chester panting at his heels and Linnea’s hand still in his. It takes them a little over half an hour to reach their destination, cheeks pink from the sharp edge to the wind.

Finally, they reach the fence, dilapidated but functional, and Cullen makes a show of opening it for her and bowing as she passes. It makes her laugh, but she's already peering curiously at the large building looming ahead of then.

“Where are we?”

“An old Chantry cloister.” He pulls the gate shut after them. “It's been empty for some time, but there's fallow out the back still.”

He can practically see the questions she's desperate to ask, but she holds them in and walks with him to the old stone building. It's preserved beautifully, better than large swathes of Skyhold, and it's not even too overgrown. Leliana had said it would be perfect, but it's not until this moment he dares to agree.

“It's so peaceful.” Linnea weaves her fingers through his again. She doesn't say anything more, resting her head against his shoulder quietly, waiting for him to speak. Even Chester is still, sniffing sedately at their feet.

He takes a breath, and she squeezes his fingers. Now that he's here, he doesn't know where to start.

“Well,” he says, “it's mine now. Granted by the Divine Victoria herself.” He reaches into his pocket to pull out the document, handing it to her. Linnea takes it with wide eyes.

“I - what?”

“I had an idea.” He watches her carefully as she scans the paper, still looking perplexed. “A sanctuary, of sorts, for templars. Well, ex-templars. There's not really a place for them anymore, they have such unique -” He hesitates, gestures ineffectively at the building. “Such unique needs, I rather think they could benefit from somewhere that understands.”

Linnea looks up at him but doesn't interrupt, and he draws a fresh breath. “I ran the idea past Leliana in the abstract, and she made it… rather more concrete. So here we are.” He looks back at her, still feeling apprehensive. “Josephine is finding some sponsors, Rylen has said he'll return from Starkhaven to help, it's all ready to go, if that's what I want.” He takes her hand. “If that's what _you_ want. I know we hadn't really spoken about what we're going to do next, and if you don't want to be tied to Ferelden -”

“Cullen.”

“- I completely understand -”

“Cullen,” she repeats, catching and holding his gaze. “Of course. I absolutely think you should do it.”

“I - really?”

“It’s a wonderful idea,” she says, resting her hand fondly on his cheek. “And I can't think of anyone better to do it.”

He closes his hand around hers, and closes his eyes briefly. “Truly?”

She kisses him softly on the lips. “Truly.”

He pulls her closer and breathes in the familiar scent of her hair. “Thank you,” he murmurs.

 

-

 

Their quiet little farmhouse is rather busy the next few weeks, overrun with guests and friends who pitch in with overwhelming enthusiasm. Chester is unequivocally delighted, and Cullen himself will admit to the bustle being pleasantly reminiscent of both his noisy childhood and the businesslike pace of life at Skyhold. He's still occasionally filled with the intense urge to escape, however. This mostly involves dragging Chester away from his adoring fans and muttering something about mabari needing long walks, fending off polite offers of company.

He is both impossibly grateful and impossibly lucky to have these people in his life, he knows this. It doesn't make him any better equipped to deal with them.

Josephine sweeps in with her usual grace, poise, and improbable efficiency, armed with noble approval, generous donations, and an impeccable sense of decor, or so he is told. The Chargers show undeniable enthusiasm, though their interior decoration efforts are more hindrance than help. Cassandra takes to the process of repairing the wooden outbuildings with a frown and a frightening intensity, Rylen and the small group of men he bring see to restoring the insides to a habitable standard, guided by Josephine’s very particular vision, and Sutherland mostly just gets underfoot, but Cullen appreciates his being there at all.

Leliana sends her apologies and well wishes, which he hardly feels is necessary given that all of this even became possible due to her generosity. It feels as something has come full circle, in a way, as if everything that’s happened has been a logical progression from the moment they first met, however improbable. He didn’t see the future Divine through the glare of Uldred’s barrier, he didn’t even see a potential ally, a future colleague, a future _friend_. He saw a young, wide-eyed bard, her pity unwelcome and horror uninvited, just another person party to his ongoing suffering, and in that moment he hated her for it. They rarely spoke of it directly; he’s sure Leliana recognised him from the moment she saw him in Kirkwall, though it took him a few meetings to figure out why she put him unaccountably ill at ease. Everything from that moment cascaded out into where they find themselves today. He wonders if she ever thinks of it.

It’s easy to drown in the past, if you let yourself. Cullen know this. He folds up her letter, and returns to the present.

He takes the garden out the back as his personal project. It's peaceful, tilling the soil and sowing rows of potatoes and carrots. He likes the idea of coming out here and being able to lose himself pleasantly in it for a few hours every day, and he hopes others will too.

Linnea watches him with a grin. “You can take the boy from the farm…”

He arches an eyebrow at her. “Aren't you going to make yourself useful?”

“Oh, no.” She settles in the shade with Chester by her feet, grin turning wicked. “I think I'll just watch.”

 

-

 

She does more than just watch, of course, though her contributions are often more subtle.

It's in the way she tugs him aside quietly when it's getting too loud and too cramped, the way she leads him out into the cool air and rests her head on his shoulder.

“You don't have to stay out here,” he says eventually, “you're missing Josie’s story.”

“Oh, I've heard it before. The Comte catches his breeches on a door handle and exposes himself to the entire ballroom.”

“How unfortunate.” He runs his fingers through her hair. “It rather puts my own courtly failings into perspective.”

“As long as you don't play Wicked Grace with anyone.”

He chuckles softly. “Yes, well, I've learned that lesson.”

“Have you? I think Josephine brought a deck of cards, if you'd like a rematch.”

“I would _not_.”

“Shame.” She smiles into the underside of his jaw before dropping her playfulness. “Are you alright?”

“I'm fine,” he says, and feels her disbelieving hum against his shoulder. “I just need some air.”

She presses her hand to his forehead briefly, but doesn't push. “I’ll get my boots, we'll take Chester for a walk.”

“I'm fine,” he repeats, though he'd like nothing more than to steal a few selfish hours with her in the long shadows of dusk. “Really. Just - a few moments longer.”

So she stands with him a little longer, and he fights both the steadily increasing ache between his temples and the way the world seems to twist around him, her hand in his an anchor to calmer waters.

The laughter carries out through the doorway, the sound of a house filled with friends. He is lucky. He is loved. He is alive on no one's terms but his own.

He breathes. He keeps breathing.

 

-

 

“I like it here,” Rylen says, leaning on his spade. “Peaceful. Clears the head.”

Cullen looks up to find Rylen considering him carefully, and shifts his shoulders awkwardly under the scrutiny. “I'm glad you think so.”

“Retirement seems to be treating you well.”

“I'm not _retired_ ,” Cullen mutters, and Rylen chuckles.

“Look at you,” he says, almost disbelieving. “Married, settled down. Doing all this.” He indicates the building behind them. “Never thought I'd see the day.”

“I've been very lucky.”

“Luck has nothing to do with it,” Rylen says, and gives Cullen another appraising look. “You've got the right idea, anyway. It's been hard knowing what to do without the Inquisition.”

“There's always a place for you here.”

Rylen smiles, a self-deprecating thing that looks out of place on his face. “Maybe one day. I'll hold you to that in twenty years.”

“Whenever you want.” Cullen says staunchly.

Rylen nods at that, and they return to their silent digging for a while longer. After a time, Cullen sets his spade in the ground and casts a thoughtful look at the turned earth.

“More turnips, I think,” he offers, and turns to head inside to fetch more seeds.

“Cullen,” Rylen calls after him, and he stops, Rylen fixing him with an unreadable look. “Was it worth it?”

He doesn't need to ask what he means.

“I can't make that decision for you.”

“Not what I asked,” Rylen says, elbow on his spade. “I've known you a long time now, Cullen. I've watched you through all of this.”

“This isn't about convincing people to do it my way. I'm just giving them the choice.”

“I know that. I just have to ask - it hasn't always looked like it was worth it, not from the outside.” Rylen shrugs. “Was it?”

Cullen sighs and rubs the back of his neck. “It… hasn't always felt worth it from the inside either, to be frank with you. I'm not surprised you'd say that.”

“But would you do it again, if you had the choice?”

“You say that like it's over.” Cullen lets out a quiet laugh. “I _would_ do it again, yes. I do it again every single day, it's not a one time thing. You have to believe it's worth it, or -” He breaks off, and looks at Rylen, and sees the flicker of hope in his face. He doesn't know that he can validify that hope, or if everything he says will do nothing but crush it. All he has is the truth, so it's what he offers.

“I still lose things,” he says, “there are memories I'll never get back, and probably some I'll never have in the first place. It's not as if these things just went away, and I don't know if they ever will. I don't know that it ever got _easier_ , or if I just got better at it. I don't know anything really; I have no idea what kind of time this bought me, if any at all. I think it has, but I can't guarantee anything.”

“So why do it?”

“Because, I -” Cullen closes his eyes and takes a breath. He thinks about Samson, slumped in his cell and barely recognisable. He thinks of the scrawny figure on the streets of Lowtown. “Because it _is_ worth it, I think. Lyrium takes everything, and while the alternative might not be easy, my life is mine. It can't take that. Any ties I have are of my own choosing.”

it's hard to tell if Rylen finds this encouraging or not, he just looks at his feet and sighs. “So even knowing everything you know now, you'd still -”

“Yes,” Cullen says instantly, causing Rylen to look up at him once more and shake his head, almost as if amused.

“I suppose that was the answer I was looking for.” Rylen says slowly.

“I'm not trying to tell anyone what they should do.”

Rylen smiles. “Somehow, I don't think you'll have to.”

 

-

 

It's Josephine who allocates the room by the chapel to Cullen, declaring that he needs a base of operations and a space to call his own. It's not quite an office, not quite a bedroom, with a broad desk in the centre and a low bench in the corner that can easily double as a bed with the addition of a few cushions.

Krem has offered no less than ten times to hang a dragon's skull on the wall. He has politely declined on every occasion.

Linnea runs her fingers along the edge of the table, frowning slightly when she spots the bench.

“Alright,” she says, and hops up to sit on the desk, legs dangling over the side. “You know I think this is a wonderful idea and I love you and support you every step of the way -”

He raises an amused eyebrow. “But?”

“But,” she repeats firmly, and grins at him, “you're not sleeping here. I completely understand you'll want to be here a lot, and I know how you are; you'll want to be accessible all times of day and night. _But._ ” She stretches her arm out and he reaches for her hand with a sheepish expression. “I'm done with that,” she continues seriously, tugging him closer. “Not that I didn't enjoy our risqué desk-based liaisons -”

“As I recall, _you_ were the one who kept instigating them.”

“Be that as it may,” she says haughtily, “I'm far too used to not sharing you to start again. Understood?”

“Understood,” he says, and kisses her on the forehead. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“For letting me do this.”

“It's important to you, so it's important to me.” She weaves their fingers together. “I think you'll make a difference to a lot of people. If I can help at all, I want to.”

“But you're stuck here,” he says, uncertain.

“Yes, I'm stuck with you,” she deadpans, “I was afraid this would happen if we got married. I suppose I'll just have to live with it.”

“Only if you're sure.”

“I'm sure.” She tugs at the front of his clothes. “I think this is exactly what we were missing, actually. We've been looking for an honest way to do some good without the Inquisition, and we've found it. It's a good cause, and it’s rather close to my heart as well as yours, come to think of it.”

He smiles into her hair. “Really? Soft spot for ex-templars?”

“Their desks, mostly,” she says, and he laughs as she pulls him closer until he's standing between her thighs.

“So you _do_ miss it.”

“Miss what?” She slides a finger behind his belt, but he's almost positive she's just teasing him.

He plants his hands down on the desk either side of her, and it wobbles tremulously. “Shoddy workmanship,” he mutters, and she laughs as she lies one hand flat on his stomach having worked her way beneath his shirt.

He kisses her then, cupping her cheek with one hand and winding the other round her waist. He kisses her with infinite fondness, slow and sweet, and he _is_ lucky, he is so very lucky to have her in his life.

He hears a polite but amused cough from the doorway behind and turns to see Krem, leaning against the frame and grinning.

“Er - sorry Commander, we were just wanting your opinion on the courtyard - I can come back in twenty minutes? Or longer, I don't know what you had planned -”

“We're on our way,” Cullen says sheepishly, at the same time as Linnea offers a: “twenty’s fine!” Both she and Krem laugh uproariously at that as Cullen sighs and casts his eyes to the ceiling.

“We're on our way,” he repeats, and Linnea jumps down from the desk as Krem leads the way, still laughing. “Wouldn't have stood up to it anyway,” he adds under his breath, and she bursts into renewed peals of laughter as he takes her hand, pressing one last kiss to her temple.

 

-

 

In what feels like no time at all, the work is finished. It’s ready. The half-formed thought that crept into his consciousness not more than two months ago is fully realised. A few of the carrots have even sprouted. Cullen stands in front of it with his arms folded and his heart beating in nervous anticipation, Cassandra to his side with a solemn expression on her face. She places a hand on his shoulder.

“You don’t need me to tell you this,” she says, “but this is the right path for you.”

“I hope so.”

“I know it is,” she says, with the sort of determined belief he’s always envied her. He cracks a small smile. “It feels right.”

“I never even imagined anything like this. I wasn’t even sure I’d still… well, be alive, to be truthful.”

“I know.” She drops her hand and looks him in the eye with one of those piercing expressions of hers. “You have earned this.”

“Well, I -”

At that, she flings one arm over his shoulder and drags him into a hug, much to his surprise. She mumbles something that might be, “I’m proud of you,” and he’s only just overcome his shock sufficiently to do something with his arms other than hold them awkwardly by his sides when she lets go abruptly. He blinks at her, both rather taken aback and hit with a rush of emotion.

“That didn’t happen,” she informs him stiffly, and starts to stalk away. He finds himself smiling at her back.

“I couldn’t have done it without you,” he calls after her, and earns a snort and an amused backwards glance in return. “Thank you.”

“I broke more things than I fixed, Cullen. Next time I suggest you hire a carpenter.”

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, and he thinks he sees a smile flicker across her face.

 

-

 

To his surprise, Rylen stays. He’s not quite sure in what capacity, but Rylen will work that out in his own time. At present, he is invaluable in getting everything started, hiring people from the nearest village to take care of the day to day tasks, and getting word out to their peers of its existence.

The first to show up are the older templars, some greying, some not, some at peace with what’s in store for them, and some fighting it every step of the way. They have no choice in how it ends for them, that’s what makes it such an easy decision to come there.

Of these are two men in their late sixties, Kerrin and Tymon, who spent the vast majority of their career stationed at Kinloch. Like Cullen, they survived the Blight, unlike Cullen, they were only barely involved in the events that unfolded in the Circle. They’d stayed there long after he left, only leaving when the war started. In the midst of the chaos, finding themselves no longer young and unwilling to take part, they had left behind their templar lives and decided to live instead as civilians, where they mostly avoided trouble and had spent the past few years in peace.

They were always kind, having seemed old even when he first knew them - the eyes of youth are rather harsh, he supposes - and Kerrin smiles at him now like it hasn’t been thirteen years, like Cullen is still nineteen and giving them timid little nods when they pass in the hallways.

“Look at you,” Kerrin exclaims, his voice gone raspy with the years but no less strong. “I can’t believe it!”

For a moment, Cullen _feels_ nineteen, embarrassed and scrutinised and flattered all at once.

“Ser Kerrin,” he says, “it’s good to see you.” He nods at Tymon. “Ser Tymon.”

Tymon smiles politely back at him, his face completely blank.

“You remember little Cullen, don’t you?” Kerrin places a hand on his back and slowly edges him through the doorway.

“Oh, yes,” Tymon says, far too agreeably. Cullen meets Kerrin’s eyes, catching a brief flash of sadness. It is painfully clear Tymon does not remember.

“Back at Kinloch Hold, you remember?”

“Kinloch Hold,” Tymon echoes. It’s as though without Kerrin’s hand he wouldn’t remember to put one foot in front of the other. “I remember.”

Cullen takes the smallest of moments to steady himself, holding the door open for them as he takes a breath. This is why he’s here. This is why he’s doing this. He breathes, and turns back around to face them with a smile on his face.

“Shall I show you the garden?”

 

-

 

Linnea reads at one end of their couch, book balanced on the arm and Cullen stretched out across the rest of the couch with his head in her lap. He dozes off occasionally, soothed by the way she runs her fingers distractedly through his hair each time she turns a page. His sojourns into sleep this way are dreamless and hazy, and he can feel his headache slowly receding.

She puts her book down with a dissatisfied sigh.

“They framed him,” she says indignantly, “he had nothing but Kirkwall’s best interests at heart!”

Cullen tries his best to sound concerned. “How terrible.”

“I want my money back.”

“Wasn't that a gift from Varric?”

“Well, yes.” She pauses. “He owes me a sequel, then.”

He chuckles and turns his head to half press a kiss to her stomach, leaving one hand resting there. “I'm sure he'll be very obliging.”

“He'd better be. Also, you do know there's nothing in there, right?” She pats his hand where it lies on her stomach.

“What?”

“I see you, having designs on my womb. ” She weaves her fingers back through his hair with a teasing raise of the eyebrows. He pulls his hand away sheepishly and rolls his eyes.

“As if I would do such a thing.”

“Of course not, I mean - it'd be terrible timing.”

“Right,” he says slowly, almost certain she's still teasing him somehow.

“It's not as if we finally committed to staying somewhere long term.”

“What?”

“Or that we've finally stepped down from our positions of huge political responsibility.”

Cullen squints up at her, pulling her hand from his hair to hold it in his. “Mmm.”

“Terrible timing, all things considered. Dreadful.” She looks at him with a put upon solemnity that makes him smile. “It's a good thing you weren't thinking about it, really.”

“Wouldn't dream of it,” he says, and then proceeds to grin foolishly at the ceiling for the next ten minutes as she returns to frowning at her book.

 

-

 

It becomes clear as time goes on that Tymon’s condition is worsening rapidly, where Kerrin’s is not. It’s not the worsening that is distressing so much as the disparity, the look in Kerrin’s eyes that can only be described as some kind of terrible longing. Cullen finds that especially hard to bear, and makes it his personal mission to occupy Kerrin’s mind as much as possible.

When Linnea drops by with Chester on an afternoon visit, he takes the opportunity to introduce them. Tymon is napping fitfully in an armchair as Kerrin sits in attendance, making an almost convincing show of reading a book. In truth, his gaze darts back to Tymon far too often for him to be making any progress.

“This is Ser Tymon and Ser Kerrin,” Cullen says, “we were stationed together at Kinloch Hold for a time. Ser Kerrin, this is my wife.” She hardly needs an introduction these days, not really, but it is rather nice to be able to give on of that ilk.

“Your wife!” Kerrin puts his book down on his lap and beams at them both. “Well, he kept that one quiet, didn’t he, Tymon?”

“Kept that one quiet,” Tymon mumbles, and closes his eyes once more. Kerrin reaches for his hand and grasps it firmly, his own hand looking so much substantial against Tymon’s papery skin. Cullen sees Linnea’s smile falter ever so slightly.

“We knew Cullen when he was just a boy,” Kerrin continues, and her smile widens once more.

“Oh, _really_. I do hope you have lots of stories.” She takes the chair next to him.

Kerrin laughs tremulously. “None as exciting as _yours_ , I should think. Cullen was a good lad; never got into trouble, always so dutiful in his studies.”

Linnea fixes Cullen with an unimpressed look. “So he never broke _any_ rules? Not even one?”

“Oh, no,” Kerrin says, “he was a good lad, wasn’t he?” Tymon nods dutifully. “Always looked out for us older folks, he always used to swap out Tymon’s night shifts with his - don’t think we didn’t notice, because we did.”

Cullen shrugs awkwardly. “I didn’t mind.”

“Well, it was always much appreciated, let me tell you that. Tymon never did well with the night shifts, did you?” Kerrin moves to mesh his fingers with Tymon’s fondly. “Bad joints in the cold.”

Tymon only looks perplexed at that, but gives Kerrin a watery smile.

Linnea glances at Cullen, her forehead creased slightly, but turns back to Kerrin, her voice light. “How long were you both stationed there?”

“I was around twenty three when I first arrived, I think. Tymon was there the year before me, we’ve known each other - oh, nearly fifty years now.”

She leans forwards. “And - forgive me for the intrusive question, but have you been together that long? I didn’t think templars were permitted relationships within the Order.”

“They aren’t,” Cullen says, amused, and Kerrin laughs. “We all pretended not to know. It was the worst kept secret in Kinloch.”

“Would you believe it used to the best?” Kerrin grins at him. “Once you reach a certain age - and you’ll see this in time - you just don’t have any spare energy to care about that sort of thing.”

Linnea lets out a little laugh of delight. “Did the Knight-Commander know?”

“I think he did, yes. He was a stern sort, Greagoir, but he wouldn’t have put a stop to anything unless he thought it was truly a problem.”

“Ostwick Circle was like that too,” she says, the corners of her eyes creasing with laughter. “They just thought blood magic and abominations were quite enough to worry about with going to the effort of caring who was doing what with who in which cupboard.”

Kerrin laughs heartily at that, Tymon stirring again as his laughter shakes their intertwined hands. “Too right,” he says eventually, wiping a tear from his eyes. “Although I don’t know about cupboards.”

“Well, whichever,” Linnea says innocently, and Cullen diligently avoids her gaze. “Furniture of your choice.”

Tymon moves again, his arm movements agitated, and Kerrin is immediately attentive. “What’s that? Are you tired?”

Tymon nods, closes his eyes. “Tired,” he manages, the word barely recognisable.

“Shall we get him into bed?” Cullen asks, Kerrin already supporting Tymon as he unsteadily rises to his feet. He catches Tymon under one arm and all but carries him the few feet to the bed. Kerrin takes over from there, pulling back the sheets and coaxing Tymon into them with a string of soothing words. It’s tender enough and private enough of a moment that he looks away, Linnea crossing the room to stand beside him and doing the same.

“Cupboards,” Kerrin is saying softly, “never thought of that one, did we?”

“No,” comes the wavery, uncertain answer.

“Too late now, Tymon. Too old for all that nonsense.”

“Too old.”

“Too right we’re too old. Now, move your feet for me, would you? Let’s get those boots off.”

Linnea touches Cullen’s elbow briefly and turns to leave the room abruptly.

“Can I get you anything?” he asks, fighting through the hoarseness of his throat.

“I’ll think I’ll take a nap too,” Kerrin says, shooting Cullen a sad, small smile. It’s a lie, but Cullen nods.

“I’ll leave you to it.”

 

-

 

He finds Linnea outside, leaning against the wall and clearly crying, face buried in her sleeve and her shoulders shaking. All he can do is gather her up in his arms and hold her, let her fist her hand in his shirt and press her face in his shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” she says, “I’m so sorry, I’m making this about me, and it’s not about me -”

“It’s alright.”

“It’s not about me, it’s about them, and I’m being so selfish, I’m so sorry -”

He shushes her and strokes her hair. “It’s hard to watch. There’s nothing wrong with that, don’t be sorry. It’s alright.”

“It’s not,” she says, muffled by his shirt, “It’s -” She lifts her head up and meets his eyes, her own red and tearful. “It scares me.”

“That’s why I’m doing this,” he reminds her gently, “that’s why I left that life behind -”

“But it doesn’t get any better,” she bursts out, almost angrily. “Don’t lie to me, Cullen, I’ve known you for years. I know it’s not getting any better.”

He runs a thumb across her cheek. “Maybe not.”

“I’m scared.”

“It’s not getting any worse, either.” He wipes a tear away. “You’ve got to remember that.”

“I don’t find that especially comforting.”

“Well, take my word for it.”

“That’s all I can do,” she says, suddenly irritated. “Because you won’t _tell_ me, you never tell me the truth, and I don’t want to push you, but Cullen, I need to -” She bites her lip, brushes the back of her hand angrily across her face. “I’m sorry. That wasn’t fair. It’s not about me, it’s -”

“Linnea,” he says, tilting her chin gently upwards and looking her in the eyes. “You’re right.”

She stays silent, just looking at him, eyes still damp.

“I should be more open, I’m sorry. I’m being selfish by keeping it from you.”

“No, Cullen, I - “

“I’ll try,” he says, “can you be patient with me?”

She closes her eyes and lets her forehead drop against his chest. Her voice is very small. “Don’t leave me. Not like this, not after everything.”

“I’ve no intention of doing so, I promise you that.”

“Is that going to be enough?” she asks, and it’s the first time she’s ever asked anything like that. The first time they’ve ever dared broach the subject in quite that manner.

He holds her back at arm’s length so he can look her in the eyes again, wanting her to see his sincerity. “It is,” he says firmly, willing her to believe it. She runs her finger over his lips, as if tracing the words to find their truth. “It _is_.”

She is quiet for a few long moments, shaking her head almost imperceptibly, but doesn’t break his gaze.

“Alright,” she whispers.

 

-

 

Cullen may not have intended to influence anyone or provide anything other than a choice, but the fact of the matter is the picture paints itself. He tries his best not to hide when he’s having difficulties, tries to be open about the cost of his decision, but it’s people like Tymon who speak all the louder for not speaking at all.

Rylen makes his own decision in the end, and if it isn’t the one Cullen expected, it’s still not entirely a surprise. The first few days go just about as poorly as can be expected, but with this part Cullen can make guarantees; this will get better.

He passes Rylen a metal pail. “The vomiting will pass within the next day or so.”

“Good bloody riddance.”

Cullen smiles, taking heart in Rylen’s continuing stubbornness. His face is pallid and he looks beyond exhausted, but he grips the bucket with a decisive - if weak - grip.

“Though I must say, you’re making quite a go of it. Anyone would think you didn’t like Tom’s cooking.”

“Bugger off,” Rylen mutters half-heartedly, but takes the glass of water Cullen offers.

He wonders if he might have been able to maintain a sense of bravado about it if he’d had someone there besides him who had some answers. He just had himself, three miserable and secretive days in Haven which he hadn’t even let Cassandra be party to, and a completely unjustified conviction that this was the right thing to do. He thought that he couldn’t make Rylen any promises, but he can. He can promise this will get easier. He can promise that the days will get brighter, and his mind will feel sharper. He can even promise, that three years from now, he’ll be standing here, still breathing, still living -

Rylen asked if he’d do it again, and he would in a heartbeat, but not least because he knows all this now. That’s what he has to offer: not grand promises of untroubled old age and complete reversal of the effects of the lyrium, but quiet promises of taking your life back and making it work day by day.

Perhaps he didn’t set out to change anyone’s mind, but he suddenly feels like he owes it to them to try.

 

-

 

“Out with it, then,” Mia says, and flicks her king lazily across the board. “Tell me what’s wrong.”

Cullen frowns. “You were only two moves away -”

“From winning spectacularly, I know. It’s no fun when you’re not even trying.”

“I _am_ trying.”

“Then I forfeit my glorious victory selflessly due to sisterly concern.” She tilts her head to one side. “What’s bothering you?”

Cullen sighs and leans back in his chair. “Nothing?”

“Nice try. Let’s start with the part where your lovely wife showed up here the other day looking ever so preoccupied.” Mia folds her arms. “We made cookies. Did you know she burns _everything_ she touches?”

Cullen can’t resist smiling. “In _and_ out the kitchen.”

“I _do_ hope you’re talking about her combat abilities. Anyway, I know there can’t possibly be anything wrong with your sickeningly idyllic relationship, so.” She nudges his knee. “What is it?”

Cullen runs his hands through his hair with another weary sigh. “I knew it would be hard,” he says, finding the truth easier than he’d imagined. “The sanctuary, seeing everything that we see there. I don’t think Linnea did.”

Mia watches him carefully. “So that explains why she’s a little out of sorts. It doesn’t explain why _you_ were glaring at the chessboard the past hour looking like it had personally wronged you.”

“Well, you were winning. Isn’t that objectionable enough?”

Mia rolls her eyes. “I can do this all day.”

He rubs his forehead. “Mia, I - I don’t think I’ve ever been completely honest with you about -” He hesitates for a moment, looking determinedly down at the table. “ - About my health.”

Her reply is gentle. “I’ve put the pieces together well enough.”

“I didn’t want to worry you.”

She laughs suddenly, louder than he expects. “Cullen, my dear _idiot_ of a brother, I hate to burst your bubble, but I’ve done nothing _but_ worry about you since you were eight years old. Believe it or not, this is the least worried I’ve ever been. For starters, I am at least reasonably certain you’re not dead, which is nice.”

“Alright, I get the picture,” he mutters, “I’m a terrible brother, I know.”

“Not completely terrible,” Mia offers, laughter tapering off and leaving a fond smile behind. “You’re making up for it, at any rate.”

“I’m glad.”

“You have to let people care, sometimes,” she says, serious once more and reaching out to pat his knee. “That’s how family works.”

“You should’ve just shoved me straight back out the door when I showed up here. I had no right to expect such a welcome when I’d disappeared on you for years at a time.” His tone is light, but he’s not entirely joking. He is unequivocally undeserving of Mia’s unwavering love, and still at a loss as to how he can ever make up for his own inadequacies.

“Probably,” she teases, “but I couldn't turn away your lovely wife, could I?”

Cullen raises an eyebrow. “‘My lovely wife’?”

“She _is_ lovely. It’s just a shame she has such terrible taste in Rutherfords and married _you_.”

“You have my sympathies,” he says dryly.

“And you’re obviously disgustingly perfect for each other, it’s truly revolting - almost enough to thaw my cold, spinster heart. Not even our nephews can manage that.”

Cullen chuckles and starts to set the chessboard back up. “Last I heard, your cold, spinster heart was already being thawed. What was her name, Ailsa? Aileen? Alli-”

“And that’s the worst thing about married couples,” Mia grouses, “they _talk_ to each other, and things I told one of them _in confidence_ -”

“You have to let people care, Mia,” he says, mimicking her words with a grin. “That’s how family works.”

“Oh, shut up. This is all beside the point, we’re talking about _you_.” Mia puts her king back into place with a firm tap. “Because I’m going to beat you when you’re trying properly, next time. Get it all off your chest so my inevitable victory has some merit.”

Cullen sets the last piece into place, and allows himself one long moment. Mia just watches him as he gathers his thoughts, only to find that it comes out rather more simple than he had anticipated.

“I’m… being selfish.”

“How is that?”

“By being married, by even thinking about starting a family, when I can’t actually guarantee that my - health - will hold. I want to say it will, but I can’t know that. I can’t.” He pinches his nose. “What am I doing dragging someone else into it?”

Mia groans loudly. “Maker, Cullen, you are such an idiot sometimes, I swear.”

“Excuse me?”

“Look, let’s start with the second part: what makes you think your health won’t hold?”

“There’s no precedent.” He shrugs helplessly. “I don’t have anything to compare it to.”

“But it’s held so far.”

“I - yes. More or less.”

Mia’s gaze is piercing. “You believe it will hold for longer than that.”

“I do, but as I said - “

“And you haven’t any reason to suppose it’ll get worse, have you?”

He has to concede that. “Nothing definite, no.”

“Alright then.” Mia moves a pawn forward two squares and raises her eyebrows. “Your move. Now, for the first part: what makes you think a shorter life is any less worth having?”

He frowns at her. “What?”

“Say the situation is reversed and you have a whole host of delightful babies, and in ten years time, the worst comes to pass and Linnea - Maker forbid - falls into poor health and dies. Would you regret it? The time you spent with her?”

“Of course not. But it’s not the same - ”

“Why not?” Mia demands.

“That would be unexpected, my situation is different. There’s some degree to which we can anticipate -”

“Really? Because being Inquisitor was never dangerous or risky?”

"Well, I suppose -”

“There you go then.” She taps the board impatiently. “And for all this talk of being a terrible brother, the idea of you being selfish is just - well, I think you might be due a little selfishness by now. And it _is_ selfish, you’re not wrong about that, but it’s the right kind. You’re allowed to want that kind. Now, _for the love of Andraste_ , stop complaining about your lovely wife who loves you very much and wants to have lots of tiny curly-haired babies with you and move your damn piece, would you?”

Cullen is stunned into an amused silence by her outburst, moving his pawn meekly and affecting an appropriately contrite expression. His lips twitch as he fights a smile.

Mia wins, of course. As he leaves he pulls her into a hug that takes her by surprise, but which she returns warmly. ”I'm an excellent aunt,” she says in his ear, “just ask Bran.” He laughs quietly at that but they don’t say anything more; it doesn’t need to be said.

That’s how family works.

 

-

 

Linnea is waiting for him in his office, sitting cross legged on his desk and giving off that slightly singed smell he's learned to associate with smoking training dummies and fire curling from her staff. Sure enough, her staff is propped up against the wall, Chester sprawled across the floor, panting.

“Oh, hello.” He bends to scratch Chester behind the ears. “I didn't expect to see you here today.”

“I promised Rylen a game of Wicked Grace but I've never seen anyone less pleased to see me in my life.”

Cullen chuckles and crosses to kiss her absently on the forehead. “He's having a bad day, I don't think the prospect of losing money will have improved his mood any.”

“He's doing well, though?”

“Better than I expected, I think worse than _he_ expected, at least for the time being. He is doing well, though.”

“I left him to sleep,” she says, “I'll take his money when he's feeling better.”

“That's… very kind of you.”

“I asked him how his dreams were,” she says, picking a quill up from his desk and rolling it between her fingers with a frown. “He said they weren't _pleasant_ , but mostly just strange and confused. He looked a bit puzzled that I'd asked at all, actually.” She looks at him then, the question clear.

Cullen moves to lean against the desk next to her. “Generally, lyrium dreams aren't present until it starts to affect you adversely. Rylen is young, he probably hasn't had any.”

“But doesn't stopping lyrium make that worse?”

“It can do.” He feels Chester pressing against his legs, sensing his discomfort. “But my dreams were bad long before - well, before I even went to Kirkwall. I'd only been taking it a year or so.”

“Since Kinloch,” she clarifies gently, and he nods slowly.

“Since Kinloch. Lyrium made them a little easier to bear, as it turned out. Perhaps it was more of a lifeline to me than I realised.”

“So lyrium didn’t cause them at all?”

“No.” He avoids her eyes by way of making a fuss of Chester, who is only too willing a conspirator. “But the lack of it made them worse for a time.”

“I remember,” she says softly, and he shakes his head with a humourless laugh.

“No, you don't.” He clears his throat, trying to somehow negate the flatness of his voice, and gives Chester one last enthusiastic belly scratch. “Anyway, they've improved a lot.”

“Cullen,” she starts, but seems to think better of whatever she's about to say, instead nestling wordlessly into his side.

He closes his eyes. “I'm sorry, I don't think I can talk about it.”

“Of course.” She rests her chin on his shoulder. “I'm not asking you to; that wasn't what I meant when I said I wanted you to tell me more.”

“What did you mean?”

“I just want to know how you're doing.” She rubs her thumb over the back of his neck in soothing patterns. “Just - that your dreams are much better than they were. Things like that. That can only be a good sign, right?”

“I don't know that it is. It's unconnected to lyrium at all, the dreams were nothing to do with it.”

“But you said stopping it made them worse.” Her fingers still on his neck. “There's evidently some connection.”

“I suppose.” Cullen takes a moment to mull that over. “I just thought that perhaps, with time they became less -” He leans into her as she presses her face into his neck. “- the memories became more distant.”

“It could be both.”

“I - yes. I expect it is.”

“That's good,” she says, smiling as she kisses him on the cheek.

“That's good,” he confirms, and tucks her against his side with one arm around her shoulders. “That _is_ good.” He hasn’t often dared to follow too far down these lines of thought; afraid of finding the opposite answer.

“Were you ever as grumpy as Rylen? I don't remember you looking like you were about to smash a chess board over my head.”

“Well, I was winning. Besides, I like chess.” He smiles. “It's relaxing. If I was feeling under the weather, it... helped.”

“In what world is chess relaxing?” she demands, pulling back to glare at him. “You've got to think of about a thousand things at once!”

“It's very absorbing.”

“Are you telling me that actually _helps_ your headaches?”

Cullen chuckles. “It distracts me. I like having to hold so many details in your mind, it -” He hesitates, adds rather sheepishly, “Well, it's a nice reminder that your mind is still capable of it.”

She traces his jaw with her thumb. “Was it ever not?”

“Sometimes it was difficult.”

Her tone is light and teasing, thought her expression is concerned. “Can't have been that hard, you beat me routinely and efficiently.”

“It's rather harder having to watch for pieces disappearing up your opponent's sleeve.” Cullen grins. “Adds an extra dimension to the game.”

“That never happened!” She is indignant. “And if it _did_ , which it didn't, you seemed to cope perfectly well.”

“Perhaps.”

“I think your mind is doing just fine,” she says, with a slight smile. “You never seem to struggle these days, and I must be a little more of a challenge, at least. Is it easier? Is it ever difficult to concentrate?”

“No. Not really.”

“That's good, too.” Her smile grows brighter.

“It is,” he says quietly, and pushes off from he's leaning against the table to wrap his arms around her properly. He is lucky. He is _loved_.

He said he would try, and he's received nothing but unwavering patience from her. He tries a little harder.

“I have a headache,” he says, “it's been a long day.”

She plants a kiss on the tip of his nose. “Let's go home.”

He closes his eyes, and breathes.

“Home,” he agrees. “Home sounds perfect.”

 

-

 

Tymon dies as summer quietly fades into autumn, quietly and uneventfully. He is asleep, and then he is gone, and though he doesn’t know it, he was never alone. They build the pyre by the forest’s edge, the red and yellow leaves falling as the flames lick up to the sky. Kerrin, who has deteriorated considerably since his arrival, leans heavily on Rylen but refuses to avert his eyes from start to finish. His health which seemed so comparably robust appeared to crumble rapidly once the weight of Tymon’s care was taken from him. His death seems to have taken an even heavier toll.

Tymon is the first, Cullen thinks, but not the last. He is glad for Linnea’s silent company.

When lyrium takes, it takes so very thoroughly. There was no last moment of lucidity, no sign of any recognition or understanding in Tymon’s face. It took, and then it took some more, and finally he had nothing left to give.

Afterwards, Linnea helps Kerrin inside - he has taken a shine to her - and Rylen and Cullen stand outside a few moments longer. It is something to see him slowly improve even as he watched Tymon gradually fade away. It is _something_.

“Poor bastard,” Rylen says eventually. “No way to go.”

“No,” Cullen agrees.

“But if he had to, can’t think of a better place.” Rylen scuffs his feet in the hard, cold dirt. “Never was about changing their minds, was it? Too late.”

Cullen grips him by the shoulder, and they stand there for a few weighty minutes, just watching their breath mist in the air. “Let’s go inside,” he says, and Rylen seems to shake off something heavy as they head in after them, cold and melancholy, but _alive_. That’s something, too.

Inside, Linnea has helped Kerrin into a chair, and is now perched on the arm with an intent expression on her face.

“Tymon liked the stars,” he says, something intense about his tone, as if imparting something precious and delicate that needs to be recorded before it too, is lost. Linnea nods, and he fumbles for her hand and takes it. “Always reading books,” he manages, “taught me all the constellations. I -  I don’t remember -” He is getting distressed, and so she squeezes his hand, an expert now in diverting his attention.

“Which was his favourite?” Her question seems to bring him back to himself, and he smiles.

“Oh, his favourite! The sword, the - sword of mercy, was that what we called it? Perhaps it had another name. It sounds so familiar. I used to know that. I used to know a lot of things,” he adds, his voice distant.

“That’s a lovely constellation. My favourite is the Oak.”

He sounds delighted. “You know that, do you?”

She smiles. “I know a few.”

“Tymon would have loved to talk to you about them, I never really… I never knew as much as him.” He pauses, his hands fidgeting in his lap. “You’re an intelligent young woman, I can see that. I don’t believe we’ve been introduced?”

Linnea takes a deep, unsteady breath before answering, but when she does, there’s a bright, warm smile on her face. “I’m Linnea, Ser Kerrin. Do you remember Cullen? I’m his wife.”

“His wife?” Kerrin’s face lights up. “And he never mentioned you!”

She looks pointedly to Cullen at that point, but he only manages a weak smile, and an even weaker offering of: “A terrible omission on my part, I’m afraid.”

“I should think so.” Kerrin pats her hand again. “He’s a good lad, only took his philter last year…”

Linnea hesitates, but doesn’t correct him. “I’m very fond of him.”

“That’s the main thing, isn’t it?” He brings both hands up to grasp her wrist. “Never married, myself. Would have liked to, but it was all very hush-hush. Templars can’t marry templars, you see.”

“How scandalous,” she says, eyes twinkling, “do tell me more! Did you have to meet secretly?”

“Oh, yes.” He chuckles. “Don’t know how we found the energy for it.” His smile fades. “Too old for that now. Too late.”

She leans closer and places her hand on top of his. “I’d love to hear about it.”

“Another day,” he says, folding his hands in his lap. “Ask me another day and I’ll tell you all about it. I’m afraid I’m ever so tired today.”

“Of course. Would you like to sleep?”

“I think so.” Kerrin pauses. “Yes, I think I’d like to sleep.” There’s another long pause. “He'd like you, I think. I'll have to introduce you to him when I'm awake again.”

Linnea takes another breath, but her voice is steady. “I'd like that.”

Kerrin’s eyes have already closed.

 

-

 

Cullen wakes up just before sunrise, jolted from sleep with the ghost of a shout on his lips. It's always just a ghost these days, he rarely wakes up to find himself actually crying out anymore. He sifts briefly through the scattered memories of his dreamscape, of the twisted horrors he's never quite escaped, but then he lets them fall away and focuses on the reality of here and now.

Linnea stirs beside him and reaches out with her hand. He catches it and kisses her palm as she shifts towards him.

“What's wrong?” she murmurs, eyes still closed.

“Go back to sleep,” he says softly. “I'm fine.”

She squints sleepily at him, one eye looking at him reproachfully. “Cullen.”

“I had a bad dream,” he clarifies, pulling the covers back up over her shoulders carefully. “Not so bad, but I won't get back to sleep. I'm going for a walk.”

She kisses the corner of his mouth, clumsy with drowsiness. “Alright.”

Chester is scratching at the floor and whining before Cullen has even pulled his boots on, poking his nose through the crack in the door he knows he's not allowed through. Cullen taps the offending nose firmly but gently; the ‘no bedroom’ rule is still a work in progress. Chester needs to be wherever he deems the fun is happening, whether that be where a potential walk seems to be developing, or where something somewhat more intimate he is not invited to.

The latter is why they've been trying to enforce the rule. There's nothing ruins the moment quite like one hundred and thirty pounds of uninvited mabari barrelling into you with an excited bark. His enthusiasm is commendable even as his interruption is unappreciated.

Chester follows him intently, as if worried Cullen will give him the slip and dare to leave the house without him, nose bumping against the back of his knees as Cullen thinks about making himself some breakfast.

To his surprise, Linnea follows from the bedroom a few minutes after him, pulling on her boots and stumbling as she does so.

Cullen catches her by the arm with a chuckle. “Are you sure you're awake?”

“Not at all,” she says cheerfully, fighting off a yawn. “Would you like some company?”

“If you'd rather sleep a little longer -”

“Too late,” she says, stepping into his space, “the boots are already on.”

“In that case, I’d love the company,” he tells her, and bends his head to kiss her. They stand there for a moment or two, cocooned by the pre-dawn stillness. Her lips are warm but her fingers cold, and he rubs them between his own, not that they're much warmer. Warmer than they used to be, he thinks, and the thought isn't one he would've had without Linnea’s newfound determination to find out exactly what is improving.

She weaves their fingers together with a smile, as if she’s thinking the same thing, and kisses his knuckles.

“Shall we?”

Chester bumps his nose into their legs impatiently so they let themselves be gently herded out the door into the morning mist.

 

-

 

Varric sends Linnea her sequel; he also sends an extravagantly large amount of his other books for Cullen, with a note indicating they’re intended as entertainment for his guests. He installs them dubiously in a bookshelf in one of the main living areas, but Kerrin seems to like them.

They plant peas in the garden, elfroot in the courtyard. There’s a strong, healthy sapling growing out the back in Tymon’s honour.

He finds Rylen in the room of a new arrival, holding out a bucket and offering gruff assurances that are perhaps more comforting for their matter of fact delivery. He can’t be more than twenty-five, and Cullen catches himself thinking that maybe he has his whole life ahead of him, lyrium free.

He sets a chess board up in his office, with the unspoken understanding that whenever he’s around, he’s available for a game.

Every day is a little brighter than the last.

 

-

 

Mia’s house is full to bursting, as it always is during their family gatherings. Bran’s two children are running around the table screaming and hitting each other with sticks as their parents watch with a fond sort of resignation.

“We’re playing templar and apostate,” the eldest confides to Linnea in a whisper. “I’m gonna set him on fire.”

“Oh, no,” Linnea says with concern, “that’s not how it goes -“

“I don’t think they need to know how _you_ play templar and apostate,” Mia says with a grin, “she’s only seven.”

Linnea promptly turns a vibrant shade of pink, but Cullen laughs. “Actually, you _did_ set me on fire the first time we met.”

“I - well, only a little!” she protests. “I... had rather hoped you’d forgotten that.”

“Why haven’t I heard this story?” Mia demands, hands on hip. “You always miss out all the good bits, Cullen, you need to start from the beginning.”

“Excuse me, the ‘good bits’?”

Linnea groans and lets her forehead drop onto Cullen’s shoulder. “It’s not much of a story, to be honest.”

“No one told me I could set anyone on fire when _I_ was the apostate!” Rosalie chimes in indignantly. “You chased me round for hours -”

“Rosie, you _loved_ it.”

As their bickering continues, Cullen catches Linnea’s eye, and she grins.

She speaks to him in a low voice meant only for his ears, though everyone else is far too busy laughing and talking over each other to pay attention. “I say we teach our children ‘warden and darkspawn.’ Much less contentious.”

“You’ve given this some thought.”

“I have,” she says quietly, and there’s a long pause while she just looks at him, the corners of her mouth curling ever so slightly. “It’d be quite something, wouldn’t it?”

“It would,” he says, trying to return in kind the sort of seriousness she’s emanating. There’s always been an edge of teasing to their conversations about this, but recently, it’s starting to fall away. “Quite something.”

She leans in to kiss him on the cheek briefly, Cullen turning into it so she brushes the corner of his mouth. “Later,” she whispers, and he smiles at her.

 _Later_ , he thinks, and finds himself turning the idea pleasantly over in his head. Later has grown from something tentative he was never sure he’d see, to something he feared losing desperately, to something he can look forward to with a slowly unfurling confidence.

Later is Rylen digging up turnips out the back, lips pinched but his arms getting steadier. Later is planting flowers beneath Tymon’s tree, knowing you won’t let it happen again. Later is coming out the other side, one breath at a time.

Later sounds good. Later sounds perfect.


End file.
